


Dorms

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Self Harm, basically R is sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire ends up in the others' dorms when his depression hits. On the worst nights, Combeferre finds him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dorms

**Author's Note:**

> I am bad at titles. And summaries. Also at writing dialogue. This wasn't beta-ed so I'm sorry if there are any mistakes, I checked through it but I can't promise I got them all. Any constructive criticism more than welcome.

Courfeyrac’s dorm smelt of hairspray and oranges, and his music was always too loud- AC/DC or the Beatles or the Killers. His walls were covered in posters and his clothes were scattered across the floor, a mess of bright colours and fancy bow ties. Grantaire quite liked Courfeyrac’s dorm, but it was always a little too bright.

Joly’s dorm smelt of hand sanitiser, mostly. There was usually music playing- cheerful indie pop, which Grantaire sometimes smiled at and sometimes had to stifle a groan. There were pictures of all of Les Amis on the walls, and even Grantaire looked happy in them. There was a bottle of painkillers set aside in Joly’s medicine cabinet especially for Grantaire.

Bossuet’s dorm also smelt of hand sanitiser, because Joly spent so much time there. Bossuet’s dorm was untidy, but cosy and pleasant and Grantaire didn’t mind that whenever he was there his friend would inevitably spill something on him.

Feuilly had a Polish flag hanging on his wall, and his dorm smelt slightly of boiled sweets, for a reason Grantaire could never place, having never seen his friend eating them. The room was tidy, which wasn’t hard given how little he had. Grantaire knew he was an orphan, and was there on scholarship and benefits, but hadn’t really thought much of it until he ended up staying with Feuilly overnight, and awoke to his friend shaking slightly, before waking up and mumbling “sorry, nightmare… foster parents when I was twelve… it’s nothing.”

Jehan's dorm smelt of flowers and cigerette smoke; Amanda Palmer was usually playing, and there were flowers on the windowsill. There were bookshelves full of books on poetry and philosphy, and several notebooks lying around. Jehan's dorm was Grantaire's favourite.

The only dorm Grantaire had never been in was Enjolras’, though he supposed it must be full of French flags and books on politics. He desperately wanted to find out for himself…

Combeferre’s dorm smelt of new books and lemon, and he sometimes had classical music playing while he worked, although Grantaire had noticed the Smiths playing sometimes too. The shelves were nowhere near big enough to hold all his books, so there were stacks on the floor too, and there were five large files of paper on his desk. Combeferre’s dorm was comfortable and calming, and Grantaire usually ended up there when everyone else was too much.

Grantaire’s own dorm was decidedly uncomfortable. The floor was covered by a plastic sheet to stop the paint getting on the floor, and he left his paints and canvases in a pile in one corner. His tattered bag, containing the bare necessities for school and a bottle of beer, hung on the doorframe. The room smelt of acrylic paint and alcohol. Grantaire didn’t exactly dislike his dorm, but he also didn’t like it; he didn’t like being alone, surrounded by paintings he’d fucked up and empty bottles and cigarette ends left by Montparnasse when he’d occasionally given in to the only way he could avoid being alone without annoying his friends.  He always regretted it; Montparnasse left scratches along his back deep enough to scar, that hurt when he lay down, and bruises on his neck that made him sick when he looked in the mirror. He left a lump in Grantaire’s throat and he couldn’t paint for days. But he helped the loneliness that would have crippled him otherwise.

               

* * *

                “Grantaire?”  
                

                 “Courf. Hey.”

                “Come in man,” Courfeyrac shut the door behind his friend, noting the bags under his eyes and the thin line of his lips, “You look like shit. Montparnasse been here?”

                “Yeah.”

                “Sit down. You know, you don’t have to resort to him.”

Grantaire scoffed. “You offering?!”

                “Oh hell no!” Courfeyrac laughed, “but you could always, you know… tell our fearless leader how you feel.”

                “Fuck off.”

                “Fair enough. So. Little Mermaid?”

                “Something scary.”

They got through three movies before Courfeyrac remembered the essay due in the day before, and Grantaire went back to his own dorm, knowing he’d get at least some sleep that night.

 

* * *

 

                “R?”

                “Hey Jehan.”

                “Don’t want to be alone?” Jehan smiled, “It’s alright, me neither.”

They sat in comfortable silence, Grantaire sketching (though he tore out more pages than he left), Jehan writing and smoking. Occasionally Jehan would read out something he’d written, sometimes asking Grantaire for an opinion, and Grantaire would ask Jehan to keep his head still so he could draw him to distract him from the urge to fill three pages with Enjolras’ face.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire lay on the floor, surrounded by torn up paintings and empty bottles. He was somewhat drunk, but nowhere near drunk enough. He could still see far too clearly, see the scars across his arms and the shitty art and his own goddamn stupidity.  He picked up the shard of broken glass for the third time that evening and dragged it across his left arm, cursing himself for not being able to cut deeper. The pain was hardly there, dulled either by the alcohol or how used to this he was. He cut again, and again, losing track of time as the cuts became more frenzied… He threw the glass across the room and shut his eyes.

                “Grantaire?” Combeferre’s voice. Grantaire ignored him- he’d seen the cuts, there was no point hiding them.

                “R… let me look at those.” Combeferre knelt beside him, pulling a bottle of water and some bandages from the bag he’d brought (of course, Grantaire thought, of course Combeferre knew what he was going to do). Combeferre cleaned the cuts, frowning when his friend didn’t wince at the sting of the water, before standing up.

                “Do you want to come back to my dorm?” and Grantaire really just wanted to stay where he was, to tear off the bandages and bleed to death, but he didn’t have the heart so he let Combeferre pull him upright and lead him to his dorm, and pretended he wasn’t grateful when his friend caught him when he stumbled.

Combeferre let go of Grantaire and sat down on his bed, before patting the space next to him. Grantaire sat down too, but didn’t say anything.

                “I do wish you wouldn’t do that.”

                “Fuck off.”

                “Of course it’s meaningless when you feel this way, but we do care about you. I care about you a lot.” Combeferre sighed and slipped an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders. He started slightly at the sudden movement when Grantaire began to shake and sob, but he said nothing, just lay back on the bed with him and held him for the night, hoping he’d be willing to talk in the morning.


End file.
